From The Fishbowl

Scribbles about stuff



Today I found myself writing some flash fiction for no apparent reason. I present it here. Enjoy.

* * * * *

I should be dead.


I am dead.

But…I’m communicating. With you. Which means I can’t be. Right?

Maybe it’s just one last shot. Unfinished business. There are others here. Other ‘mes’. We have no shape or feeling. No form any longer. We exist merely as numbers and letters and colours and symbols and signs. But I am writing this to tell you how much I hate you.

You killed me.

I should have known you were trouble from the second you forced me to take those magic mushrooms. I didn’t want to. But I had no choice. And boy, it felt good. They made me feel big, powerful, like I could take on the world and fulfil my greatest potential.

And then you killed me, you bastard.

A ledge. You guided me up there, practically held my hand, as I climbed those steps. It was hard work. God knows how high I ended up. Thirty feet? Forty? And at the top was just a gap. A chasm. A drop right down, deep into the dirt below. Someone had dug it out. It doesn’t matter who (although, had I survived, I’d probably be able to sue).

The gap was maybe ten feet. Inconsequential in comparison to the stairs you’d just made me climb, but my head was still spinning with narcotics. “You can make it,” you said to me, in not quite so many words. And I believed you. Without question.

You pushed. I leapt into the sky, higher than I ever thought possible (both literally and by way of drugs). The opposite ledge got closer and closer and then…

I missed.

By a fraction, I missed.

I couldn’t even grab on. In my head-fucked state, I foolishly held one arm aloft, fist raised, the other to my side, and could not react quickly enough to my mortal peril.

I fell for what felt like an eternity. My short life flashed before my eyes. My head was filled with music.

And I died.

You disappeared. After all, you had no connection to me any more. But now you’re trying to do it to some other unsuspecting fool. Another me.

The worst part is, I can’t stop you. All these other ‘mes’ have suffered the same, or similar, fate. Were there a way to make you pay, they’d have found it. You are the world’s greatest serial killer, my friend, and you probably don’t even know it.

Ah, speak of the devil, another one has joined us. It’s a me – Mario. Of course it is. Who else would it be? If nothing else, I hope you remember that name. Fucker.

* * * * *

It was fun to write. If you liked it, drop me a comment (or check out the Contact page), pass it on or just smile at yourself and forget it. ‘Sup to you. But thanks for reading.


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